Many Voices, All My Own
by Lady of the Ink
Summary: A first person fic from a post-series Celena's POV. What she feels upon her return home, and how she interacts with Allen and a few other unexpected guests. Rating is high; could be G. Major spoilers, if you haven't already guessed that.


Title: Many Voices, All My Own  
Author: Lady of the Ink  
Pairing: none  
Category: Drama/Angst  
Disclaimer: I don't own Escaflowne, but you knew that. I hope. But I do own this story and all the plot twists it contains.

Summery: A journey into the post-series mind of Celena Schezar reveals a few unexpected residents.

Major spoilers, in case you haven't already guessed.

* * *

(Celena's POV)

We sit in the parlor, my brother and I, a nightly ritual that had begun soon after my second return home. To an outsider, it may seem like a comforting routine, a bonding moment shared to end the day. It just goes to prove appearances truly are deceiving. These hours are a trial of tension and the epitome of mental distance.

Allen alternates between staring out the window at the black depths of night and pretending to read a book. Every once in awhile, he will clear his throat as though preparing to speak. But in all the weeks spent in this room and in these seats, a word has yet to leave his lips. I think he feels he must match my silence, or risk saying something wrong.

As for myself, I stare into the flames of the fire. I know this worries him, but it shouldn't. I don't look upon the fire to marvel at it's destructive force, to envision all the things, buildings and people alike, who have fallen beneath its crackling power. No, it is for another reason entirely that I am so intrigued.

A fire is generally thought of as a singular thing, but it is not. If one looks closely enough, they can see all the different parts that make it whole. The brilliant yellow flames merging with the dusky reds as the deep oranges dance about them both. The flashing glimpses of magnificent blue, hidden beneath the rest. But it is the tendrils stretching upward that hold my attention for the longest.

What is it about them that calls to me so? Perhaps it is the fact that, though they are as one at the base, each seems to grow it's own personality as it extends. Small, shy flames bob, barely popping their heads up before they duck back down. Bold flames writhe and weave as they flicker upwards. So different, and yet the same.

I sigh, shifting in my chair. Allen's eyes move to my face, his expression both hopeful and wary. For as long as this evening tradition has been carried out, he has given me that look at every noise I make. But he never questions, because he knows I cannot answer.

As he looks away, my mind drifts back to my homecoming. Soon after my return, I came down with a terrible fever. For two long weeks, I lay in bed, aching in every muscle. It was almost expected after everything my body had been through. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the one in my mind.

It was then that I became aware of the others.

As I drifted in a place made of liquid darkness, they came to me, seeming as surprised at my being there as I was. The first to come forward so I could see her was a small girl. Her large blue eyes filled a face surrounded by thick waves of dark blonde hair.

For what seemed to me to be an excruciatingly long time, she just stood there in her frilly white dress with its blue-green sash, staring at me. Expressions flitted across her face, changing with each new emotion. Surprise, fear, confusion, worry . . . All were clearly discernable as they came and went.

"Are you going to stay here, too?" she finally asked, startling me out of my thoughts.

"Where is here?" I asked, the desperation I felt leaking through in spite of my best efforts to suppress it.

Her little brow wrinkled as she gave my question a lot of thought. "Here is just . . . here," she explained, seeming proud of herself for that answer that told me nothing. "It's where we live."

Before I could ask her what she meant by "we", the answer made itself known. First, the inky fog surrounding us shifted, shapes pushing their way out of the "walls" until, with a soft pop, furniture slid into view as though it had just been born. A pastel green sofa, two overstuffed chairs in roughly the same shade, and a plain, stiff backed wooden chair arranged themselves in a group.

I watched, completely speechless, as wallpaper rolled downward like a patterned waterfall to form a square, windowless room around us. Boards made a quiet clicking sound as they laid themselves out across the floor, followed by a hushed rustling as carpet sprouted like grass.

The little girl skipped across the room to take a seat in one of the matching chairs, apparently unmoved by the display that had just occurred. As she settled in, humming under her breath, a crack appeared in the wall behind her, forming a vertical line about two feet across and six or so feet from the ground. As I watched, the two ends suddenly turned downward, slithering towards the floor.

The outline of the door complete, a doorknob appeared and was immediately turned by someone on the other side. Not even a creak was heard as it opened and a small boy appeared. Before the door closed behind him, I saw a hallway that seemed to stretch on for a long distance with no discernable end.

The boy, who looked to be a few years older than the little girl, froze at the sight of me. His dark eyes widened as his entire body trembled, shaking a few strands of silvery hair across his forehead. Not knowing what else to do, I remained motionless. Apparently deciding I was no immediate threat, he darted further into the room, claiming the other soft chair. He pushed himself as far back as the seat would allow, almost as though willing it to swallow him up. But his eyes, those haunted, tormented eyes, never left my face.

The little girl's humming, which had paused upon the boy's entrance, began again. She chewed lightly on her lower lip, her face a study of concentration. Suddenly, her eyes lit up, and she began digging between the arm and the seat cushion of her chair. This resulted in the appearance of two stuffed dolls, both of which gave me pause.

The first was in the design of a little boy. His shoulder length blonde hair cascaded over a white shirt made of fine lawn. Dark blue trousers and a shiny pair of boots completed the outfit. My eyes widened and I could feel my jaw drop as I realized that the doll was a likeness of Allen as he had been when he was ten.

My gaze darted to the other doll, a little nervous about what I would find. This one was not human; rather, it was that of a beast man. Tan fur covered everything that it's loose green tunic didn't. Jajuka, my mind offered. And if that was him, then the little girl must be . . . me.

I pressed one hand to my stomach as a dizzy feeling enveloped me. As I swayed a bit, I must have made some sound because the little girl (me at five!) looked up.

"You can sit down, if you want. Just don't sit there," she said, gesturing to the wooden chair. "He gets mad if someone sits there." With that, she turned back to her dolls.

Making my way to the sofa on watery knees, I sank down gratefully. Trying to get a hold of myself, I took several deep breaths, keeping my eyes locked on the floor. When I looked up, I was just in time to see my younger self cross to the little boy. Smiling gently, she offered him the Jajuka doll, the stuffed Allen still held firmly beneath her arm.

He reached out to take it slowly, as though afraid she might jerk it away at the last moment. When she didn't, he cuddled it to his thin chest, watching her as she resumed her seat.

'That must be me right after they did the switch,' I though to myself. It would explain the boy's obvious fear and mistrust. My eyes drifted to the final empty seat. That meant the other person had to be . . .

The door slammed open hard enough to stick in wall (which just as quickly mended itself), and the one person I'd hoped never to be cursed with again strode into the room.

Dilandau Albatou.

Silver hair glinting and red eyes flashing, he shot me an angry glare as he crossed the room, but otherwise ignored everyone. Sitting down in "his" chair, he pulled over a small table that I could have sworn wasn't there a moment before. A polished wooden box sat on it, closed with a golden clasp.

Still ignoring the rest of us, he opened the box and began removing small figurines. Each was about three inches tall, and there must have been thirty or more in all. When they were all lined up, the box was placed on the floor, and a sort of game board was laid out on the table.

As he separated the "people" into two groups, then set them to attacking each other, I got a better look at them. One side was made up entirely of boys in blue armor. The Dragonslayers. The other team was more eclectic, but just as recognizable.

Van Fanel in his trademark red shirt, the girl from the Mystic Moon in her strange clothing, a grown up Allen in his uniform, and some members of the Crusade's crew were all there. So were several Gaean rulers, including King Aston of Austoria and his former son-in-law, the Duke of Freid.

Surprisingly, Folken Fanel/Strategos was also on that team. Or maybe it wasn't that surprising after all. Dilandau had always seen the older man as more of a thorn in his side than a member of the same team. He had even felt vaguely glad when Folken turned traitor, thus giving him a legitimate reason to go after him should the opportunity arrive. Or as glad as Dilandau would allow himself to feel.

As the three other versions of me amused themselves in their own ways, I realized what was going on. I was inside my own mind, seeing the results of the Zaibach sorcerers' handiwork. Four separate beings, the same and yet different. Young, old, male, female; all I had ever been remained here, frozen in time.

It was then that it occurred to me that I might now be trapped with them. Stuck in a world that conformed itself to an unspoken wish. Was it my fate to cease to be as a real person? To become nothing more than a figment of my own imagination?

It wasn't.

I awoke in my bed to find that that one day on the inside had lasted for the better of two weeks on the outside. As Allen sat on my bedside, he told me with his tired but relieved eyes how glad he was that I was getting better. More than anything, in that moment, I wanted to tell him what I had seen in that room. Beg him to help me make the others go away.

But as I opened my mouth, I felt them rise within me. Maybe they knew of my intentions and didn't wish to go. Or maybe they just wanted one last chance to be heard. Whatever it was, four voices trying to speak at once was not good. And like too many people trying to get through a narrow doorway at the same time, their words combined with mine seemed to dam up my vocal cords. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't utter a sound.

That was almost two months ago, and little has changed. I still see them, the other parts of me. They come in that one instant between sleeping and waking, calling to me. Sometimes, I manage to ignore them. Those nights, I dream of what might have been had I stayed home that day when I was five years old.

But sometimes, when I'm feeling lonely in my silent world, I go willingly. There's actually a lot to do there. Tea parties with the little girl and her dolls can last for a long time. The tea and cookies never run out, and we don't get tired.

The little boy sometimes lets me read to him, although he still keeps his distance. The stories are all ones I remember Mother and Allen reading to me. I suppose, given the circumstances, that makes some kind of sense.

I've even come to a sort of understanding with Dilandau. On bad "days", we keep our distance from one another. Other times, we play his game. He controls the Dragonslayers, of course, but I don't mind. I let him win, but not too easily. It just doesn't seem right to defeat him; this is all he has left.

The clock on the mantel chimes, and Allen closes the book he hasn't read. He stands, and I follow suit. It's time for bed.

He walks me to the door of my room. My hand is on the knob, but he stops me before I can enter. He looks into my eyes, and even in the dim hallway, I can see the pain in his. I know he blames himself for my silence, thinking that he could have saved me from what I went through. He couldn't have, but I can't tell him that. I can't tell him anything.

"You'll never be alone again, Celena," he promises me in a voice so sincere it fairly rings. He is trying to comfort me; to calm what he thinks is my biggest fear.

I want to laugh, but in this world, I have no voice. If I did, I would assure him he could quit worrying on that count. If there was one thing I was in no danger of, it was being alone.

* * *

A/N: I have no idea where this came from, but here it is. I wrote this in one afternoon, with no idea where it was going. For a spur of the moment thing, I think it turned out quite well. The whole symbolic possessions thing surprised even me with how fitting they seem.


End file.
